


Blood on Snow

by northwesterndownpour



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:44:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northwesterndownpour/pseuds/northwesterndownpour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes John to America and won't tell him why...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I've stopped working on this one for now. I have plans to re-write the entire thing sometime because I want to use the idea but I really don't like how this turned out... I wrote it a while ago and I just don't want to continue it from here, knowing the beginning is written kind of poorly.

            Sherlock had always loved winter. It rarely snowed in London, but now, as he looked out the flat’s window, he could see the flakes spiraling to the ground, each one so similar but different from all the others. Suddenly, the thought struck him that he had never actually experienced snow more than an inch or so deep. He often travelled, but by chance was usually either not in the winter or a place that didn’t snow. _Maybe I should take a case in America_ , he thought, it should be snowing a lot there around this time of year. Pulling out his phone, he scanned the usual local news reports to make sure there wasn’t anything important, then checked for anything around the east coast of the United States, which had both a lot of snow and a lot of crimes. Lots of results came up almost immediately, but he didn’t want the obvious ones. He wanted something interesting.

            “John!” he called, not being sure of whether John was even in the apartment or if he had left. There was no answer, but he tried again just to make sure. “John? Are you home?”

            “Is it important? I’m a little busy at the moment,” the voice floated out from the bedroom.

            “Yes. Come out here,” Sherlock called.

            “Are you _sure_?” he sounded annoyed.

            “Yes!” Sherlock said impatiently. What could he be doing in there that was so important? After a minute with no answer, he sighed and got up from his chair, and walked toward John’s bedroom. He turned the handle and opened the door without knocking. Before he could go in, or even see John at all, the door was slammed in his face and John yelled angrily,

            “ _Do you mind?!_ ” This only made Sherlock more curious about what could possibly be happening in there. He was about to open the door again when he heard John, speaking quietly.

            “Sorry about him, he’s always like that. I think he’s gone now, though,” and, to Sherlock’s surprise, he hadn’t noticed anyone coming in, a female voice answered.

            “It’s okay. I had a roommate in college who was just like that, you know. Her name was Irene,” So John had a girlfriendin there. Well, girlfriends could wait. They were going to do something _interesting_. He opened the door a second time.

            “John, I really need to talk to—” he stopped talking as he saw the room. On the bed were John and a woman who looked vaguely familiar, she must have been the next one after the boring teacher. The only problem was that neither of them was wearing clothes.

            “ _SHERLOCK_.” John yelled. “ _GET OUT_.”

            “I— okay. How long will you be though? I really need to ask you about something,” he said to John.

            “Fine. Just tell me now, what could _possibly_ be so important that you feel the need to walk into my bedroom _twice_ when you knew I was… in this situation?!” John said, not bothering to cover himself or his girlfriend up.

            “I was wondering if you’d like to take a trip to America with me. It will be tomorrow if you want to come with. Which I hope you will,” Sherlock said calmly. John looked at him incredulously and stood up.

            “That was what you wanted to ask me?? Did it ever even cross your mind that—” He took a deep breath. “Just go. I can talk to you tomorrow. But can you please just _leave_ , _right now_.” Sherlock stepped out of the room and John slammed the door shut behind him.

            “You’ll have to decide before tomorrow John, the flight leaves at six in the morning,” he called through the door. There was no answer, but he knew he should leave them alone this time.

            Early the next morning, Sherlock woke up to noises coming from John’s room. He tried to ignore them, but the persistent sounds, which sounded rather like the ringtone The Woman had set to his phone, did not go away. He got up, made himself a cup of highly caffeinated tea, and then looked at the clock. No wonder he felt so tired. It was only 2:30 am. _Oh well_ , he thought, _I got a good two hours of sleep._ He would just sleep on the plane. Although he was considering abandoning the case if John wasn’t coming with. The main reason he was going was the snow, anyway, and what fun was seeing snow without a friend? Sherlock was fairly sure John was angry at him, but he had hoped he would still want to go to America… A particularly loud vocalization came from John’s room, distracting Sherlock from his thoughts. Mrs. Hudson appeared in the stairwell, looking tired.

            “Have they kept you awake too? Those really are rude noises they’re making, aren’t they?”

            “Mrs. Hudson, I thought you should know that I’m probably leaving to fly to America in about three hours,” he said.

            “All right, what is it for? You don’t usually do cases that far away,”

            “At first it was the snow, then it was the case.” Sherlock said.

            “Sometimes you don’t make any sense, Sherlock dear,” she said, confused. “But anyway, it sounds as if they’ve stopped in there. I don’t hear any sounds at all anymore, maybe I can get some sleep now,” Sherlock didn’t get to reply because John walked into the room, wearing pants this time.

            “I’m going with you to America,” he said. “Oh God, why does this always happen to me?”

            “What…happened?” Sherlock wasn’t sure if John would take that as an offense or not.

            “She broke up with me. Again.” he sighed.

            “But how did it happen so fast? Just a minute ago you were—” Mrs. Hudson was cut off.

            “Just… don’t ask. I’m fine, but a vacation would be nice,”

            “It isn’t going to be a vacation. We’re working on a case,” said Sherlock.

            “I don’t care,” John said.

            A few hours and mugs of tea later, the two friends found themselves in the back of a taxi, pulling into the Heathrow airport parking lot. They were planning to stay for a week, possibly longer if the case called for it.

            “I haven’t been to America in a long time,” said John as they walked to the check-in. “I remember I used to fly every year to visit my aunt and uncle who lived there, before the army,”

            “But they died in a car accident just over three years ago.” said Sherlock.

            “How could you possibly have—I’m just not going to ask anymore,” John shook his head in amazement. They had packed two large suitcases, which were now being scanned. Suddenly, a loud beeping noise sounded as Sherlock’s bag went through.

            “Sir, you have a _gun_ in your bag,” the security attendant said, placing the offending bag on a table. “You do know firearms are illegal to bring into airports, don’t you?”

            “Really? They must have changed the rules again. I’ve brought them several times when—oh.” He remembered that his old suitcase, the x-ray blocking one, had been destroyed and he was only using a normal one. “Never mind. I’m sorry. Can I just leave it here?”

            “We will confiscate it and it will be held in a security box. When you come back, you can retrieve it if you would like, but may have to go through a few legal precautions to do so,” the guard said.

            “That will be fine,” said Sherlock, and proceeded through the metal detector. It went off the moment he entered. “Ah.” He said, pulling another gun from his pocket. “Here you are,” he handed the gun to the security person, and tried to go through a few more times, removing various items from his pockets. After the fifth attempt, he walked through without a problem. John followed him through the detector, apologizing to the guard as he left.

            John had the window seat on the plane, and Sherlock was right beside him. As it sped down the runway, John already felt himself drifting off to sleep. He hadn’t slept at all that night, but in his half-asleep state, he realized that other than that there was ‘a case’ in New York, Sherlock had not even told him what it was. But he was too tired to even sit up to ask Sherlock about it, so he let sleep drag him down into a white swirling dream…

            _John trudged through the deep snow, desperately trying to reach a destination far off in the distance that he couldn’t see, but he knew it was there… the whiteness blinded him, was he walking forward or just down farther into the snow? His vision blurred until all he could see was white and all he felt was cold. Then blackness slowly closed in, no, it was more of a deep navy blue, full of tiny pinpricks of light. He found himself lying on his back, staring up at the night sky. He sensed Sherlock next to him. ‘Do you ever wonder if anything is even real?’ Sherlock asked him. ‘We could just be someone else’s thoughts. Or maybe you’re the only one that even exists, and everyone else is just part of a complex scenario you’ve been placed in to test your reactions. There is no proof at all that that’s not happening to any of us right now. And you’ll never know.’ In the dream, John was immobilized. It felt like a huge weight was crushing his whole body, but he couldn’t scream…_

John was jolted awake as the plane touched down. Blinking, he looked around, slightly disoriented. Sherlock was looking at something on his phone but somehow noticed immediately when John woke up.

            “You slept through the whole flight. Waste of the view, you should have let me sit by the window,” he said without looking up from his phone. The plane coasted along the runway as it slowed down, and as Sherlock had predicted, it was snowing. They left the plane and picked up their bags, then caught a taxi. John directed the driver to the address of their hotel, wondering what the case could possibly be. He had been too upset about his girlfriend to ask before, he had just wanted to get away. Was Sherlock keeping it from him on purpose, or did he just forget to tell him? He could easily imagine that happening, so he decided to ask.

            “Sherlock, what exactly is the case?” he said.

            “Didn’t I tell you? We’re going to find The Woman,” he sounded happy. A stab of panic shot through John as he remembered that no one had told him. They had kept it a secret. And they had paid for plane tickets all the way to America for this. Why hadn’t he asked what it was before now?

            “Has she… contacted you?” there was still the slightest hope that maybe he wouldn’t have to tell him.

            “No, she’s in witness protection, remember?” John didn’t say anything. _Should I tell him? Of course I should. It’s not like he really cared about her anyway…_

“Irene Adler died a few months after we last saw her. I’m sorry, I… just didn’t think you would want to know.” John said. Sherlock paused but didn’t look up from his phone.

            “Oh. I had expected something like that to happen,” he nodded.

            “I’m really sorry to have to tell you this now, after we’re already here, I just didn’t—” Suddenly, Sherlock’s phone suddenly gave off an alarming loud sigh. It was her ringtone. _I’m still not dead._ _Heard you were coming to find me?_ The message said. Somehow, Sherlock didn’t even look surprised. He smiled slightly and texted back. _Happy Birthday._ Just then the taxi stopped and they got out, picking up their suitcases.

            “Wait… you just… got a text from…” John was shocked.

            “It would seem so.”

            “She’s _dead_ ,”

            “Apparently not,”

            “Okay. So how is she alive?” John said as soon as they got there.

            “Honestly, I don’t know,” Sherlock replied. Then the phone sighed again. _5071 Hartford Avenue_ , was all the text said. “But we might get to find out. Let’s go,” Sherlock waved for another taxi to that destination.

“Err—Sherlock—we’re not even dropping off our bags at the hotel first?” Sherlock had already gotten into the taxi. “All right then,” John sighed and climbed in after him, putting the suitcase at his feet. Somehow the address was only a few blocks away from location Sherlock had chosen for the hotel. It looked like a fairly normal street, with houses close together, rooftops layered in snow. They walked down the street toward their destination, snow crunching beneath their feet with each step. Sherlock knocked on the door three times, and they waited for a minute. Then, the door opened. 


	2. Chapter 2

A familiar face looked out, and John felt the old pain in his chest, he had never figured out why he felt it. It wasn’t for the reasons anyone would expect, because the first time he saw her he hadn’t felt it despite her clothing (or lack of). He had only started to feel the dull, aching pain when Sherlock had started to have his danger nights, as Mycroft had called them, after she left. _Because_ of her. Sherlock did not care about people. Things like that didn’t happen to him because of people. He didn’t care about her, but yet… did he? John could never figure it out. She had definitely cared about him. But John could only imagine what would happen if they admitted it to each other. He might be happy for a while, that would be good. But when she left him, and she would, there was no doubt of that, what would happen then? Sherlock’s heart had never been broken before. There was no predicting what it would do to him. Anything could set him off into danger zones, John had learned that. When he moved in, it had taken a lot off of Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft’s minds. They would always have to check on Sherlock before then, to make sure he didn’t do anything dangerous on one of those nights. And to make sure he was eating, or even sleeping…

“Hello, Sherlock. I’ve been expecting you,” she said, smiling. “Come in,” She took no notice of John, but he followed Sherlock into the house. It was large and everything was expensive-looking, very similar to her old house in London.

“So uh—how are you—” John started to ask. _I really shouldn’t be surprised by this kind of thing anymore. She’s already come back from the dead once._ She walked past, ignoring him, and stood in front of Sherlock.

“Hello,” said Sherlock. “This is really beginning to resemble last time, isn’t it?”

“Yes actually, it is. And hopefully this time will go... just as well as the last,” she stared into Sherlock’s eyes. _Ugh. Do I really have to go through this again? At least she’s wearing clothes this time,_ John thought.

“Yes, that. That was… interesting. Anyway, John tells me you were dead? Again.”

“Oh, do we really need to talk about this?” she said impatiently. “Why is he here anyway? I had hoped you’d leave him behind,” Her face registered only annoyance.

“Excuse me,” John said, offended. “I’m right here, I can hear you,”

“Can you, make him leave or something?” she said to Sherlock, gesturing dismissively towards John.

“I am Sherlock’s friend, unlike you, and I—”

“John, can you go to the other room,” Sherlock said. For a second he just stood there. _Of course. I should have expected this; he actually wants to listen to her, what was I thinking. But I didn’t think he would send me out like a child just because she said so?_ He regained his composure and, after receiving a last frosty glare from Irene, left into the next room. It was actually a hallway, with doors leading off of it on either side. He left the door to the room Sherlock and Irene were in open a crack. The sound carried well in the large, open room.

 “How long are you planning to stay here?”

“Oh, maybe just the evening, if that’s all right? We have a hotel booked,” Sherlock told her. “We’re staying in America for maybe a week. I actually do have a case, just a few large gang murders in the area. Thought I’d clear that up as long as I’m nearby. Don’t say anything important, I’m ninety-nine point three percent sure John is listening at the door,”

She glanced over at it, although it was open so little she couldn’t tell. “Very well,” she sighed. “Why did you even bring him?”

“He was right, you know, he _is_ my friend. Please don’t insult him,”

“All right, well enough about your friend. I have plans for us,”

“And do you mind telling me what those plans are? Because I have no intention of—”

She walked over to him and put a finger to his lips.

“Before that… I need to tell you something. There is a criminal organization called the Akron. They’ve managed to track down my location. There’s been… some bad blood between them and I.

He nodded. “I could look into it,”

“They’ve been contacting me for a while; they will arrive very soon. So what I’m really saying is that I need your help. Urgently. And when you do eliminate these people for me, you will be… rewarded,”

“I’m not interested in that,” her personality alone told him what they would be without a doubt.

“Very well,” she said. “But you will help me anyway,”

John had reached the end of his patience. He opened the door and called out, sounding annoyed.

“Well it has been a _lovely_ visit, but Sherlock and I really need to get back to our hotel before the reservation expires. He can get all his research done on these people there, and I’m sure he won’t be able to wait to come see you again tomorrow,” It was bad enough that she sent him into the other room like a child, but then she started _flirting_ with Sherlock and demand that he take a case for her?

“So you’re actually going to help her?” he said, the minute they were out of the door.

“I suppose I am,” Sherlock said. “Besides, she quite probably will be killed if I don’t,” This was so unlike Sherlock, John thought. When in his life had he ever cared whether someone, other than his family or people extremely close to him, lived or died? With the number of cases brought to them since Sherlock had his few weeks of being famous last year, even John, a military doctor, was shocked at the sheer number of lives lost to murderers or anything else with just a few words. ‘Boring.’ or ‘Not worth my time,’ He never cared about what happened to them, ever. Because he was Sherlock, and that was just how he worked. But now this, the flicker he thought he had seen when they were on the taxi was real?

They walked in silence back to the main road, where Sherlock called for a taxi. As they sped down the streets of New York, toward their hotel, John tried to make himself accept the fact he was sure of now. _Sherlock is in love with Irene._ _Even if he might not realize it himself._ John knew that if he asked him he would deny it, so he didn’t try. But inside him the fact was always there, dragging him down constantly with its weight. He tried to distract himself.

“So… the Akron, right? I’ve never heard of them. Are they dangerous?”

“I’ve heard the name, but I don’t know much about them. I’ll need to research,” he replied. “And as soon as possible.” He was already typing on his phone. A few minutes later, the taxi was pulling up next to the hotel.

“I’ve got them!” Sherlock said suddenly, and jumped out of the taxi before it had even stopped completely. “John, do you see this?” He pushed the phone, with a screen showing a list of crimes thought to be related to the Akron. “Judging by the locations of the attacks, I’ve been able to determine approximately where their center of operations is,”

“How could you possibly—never mind. I’m not even going to ask anymore,” John followed him into the hotel.

“King or two queens?” The receptionist asked.

John turned red. “Two queens,” he told her quickly.

“Okay, you’ll be up in room 19a,” she said, handing him the key card. “Have a nice stay!” As soon as they found their room, Sherlock took out his laptop and began doing some strange process with a map of the area and records of previous attacks, which generated regions of different colors that John could only guess the meaning of.

“They’re going to kill her tonight,” Sherlock announced suddenly after a while. “We have to go. Now,”

“Er—Okay. Where are they going to be?”

“Right now, they should be on their way to her house. We need to get there at exactly the right moment.” They left the hotel, snow crunching under their feet. It had been snowing for almost the entire day, since they had landed there that afternoon, so the snow was piled almost a foot high.

They reached Irene’s house.

“Be careful,” Sherlock warned John. “They should be near here by now,”

“How exactly do you plan on stopping them?”

Sherlock pulled a gun from his coat pocket. John nodded nervously. Then all at once, a gunshot went off, deafeningly close. _Are they shooting at_ us _?_ _I thought they were trying to kill Irene._ They stood against the wall of the house, straining their eyes for any sign of the attackers in the fading light, but there was only silence. 


End file.
